a clearing in the clouds fills the green between the paths. I sit on the wall and watch the faces pass, leaves in a stream from the library out into their own forevers. the branches dance above: gentle breeze, warmer in a sense of spring to come. a magpie sings across the pavement, a tag around his ankle. 418 in white on black. I don't know what it means or why his other friends fly free unnumbered.
somewhere on the the cusp of consciousness. I stream the days through empty screens and doomsday groceries. on my phone I read your name and hope to see you when I sleep. sometimes you say mine in response. sometimes I wish I could forget. wake to tasks and masks to keep the wheel spinning. a dollar and a dream taxed to fuel the war machine. the headlines hang in shame - another word for hell on earth in place of action. another word enough to aid our guilt and apathy for now.
my chain slips in motion off the cobblestone. I brake to fix my bike somewhere between the cemetery and bed. the mishap paints my fingers and I seek salvation from the telegraph pole. blossoms weep over the curb to make me think of home. a little too cold and too early this year. I'd send a picture if only I could ask myself to stop and take the time.
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